


The Ninth

by LightningStarborne, yourlocalbirb



Series: The Last of the Nine [3]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (except for Talion, BAMF Talion, Culture Shock, Elf Culture & Customs, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, GFY, Gallows Humor, Gen, Lithariel and Idril as Talion's unofficial adoptive daughters, Multi, Orc Culture & Customs, Post-Canon Fix-It, Selectively Mute Talion, Shelob as the adoptive older sibling Talion never thought he needed or wanted, Talion attempts to speed-run building a functional society complete with it's own culture, Talion is Middle-Earth's saddest man who just Dads so hard on everyone, Talion's sense of humor is absolutely wack, and it actually works out pretty well for him, chapters have been recently rearranged, endgame spoilers, exploration of Talion's various traumas and how they would affect him, who is technically undead)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStarborne/pseuds/LightningStarborne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb
Summary: Short companion pieces to the main story of Last of the Nine that don't quite fit with the major body of the work, primarily written by yours truly, loosely organized in chronological order. Updates sporadically.





	1. TA 2968, Cirith Ungol, Mordor,  (57 years before the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your brand new history  
> Forget, forget, forget, forget  
> Whatever you were, whatever you were, whatever you were  
> Whatever you were, whatever you were, whatever you were  
> Forget, forget, forget, forget  
> No crimes, no memory"  
> No Crimes- Son Lux
> 
>  
> 
> _Talion struggles under the weight of the Ninth Ring._

_“Talion.”_

A woman’s voice roused him from the state of _not-there_ that passed for sleep these days. " _.....I'reth?"_   he slurred out sluggishly, forcing his eyes open. His expression crumpled when he was met not with the warmth and light of his rooms in the Garrison, but the barren, cursed landscape of the plains that comprised Mordor's heart. Cursed, wretched place.  _Cursed- just as **he** was_. _His kin- his **love, his son-**  now long gone, and he doomed to remain behind._ Vanilla carefully leapt across a narrow crevice, and he clung harder to her back, grimacing at the immense heat of the lava below. She landed safely with a jarring thud and clack of claws on stone that rattled his teeth in his head. He shook off the feeling, and then glanced about, suddenly wary, halfway expecting to see a patrol of uruks or a caragor pack on the prowl- but no, nothing. This land was empty, dead. He slumped back disinterestedly against the Dire Caragor's neck, idly watching the charred ground of Gorgoroth slide past underneath her feet. He felt like he was falling asleep. _Not asleep. Dying. Drowning. He couldn’t sleep. Not anymore. He hadn’t slept in so long.. Not since-_

He had never been so tired. _He had always been this tired. He would **never** know peace- **banished** from death- trapped within the walls of Arda._

He was falling, again, his mind lost to the abyss. 

_He had **already** fallen, would fall, would fail. Time was an irrelevant concept to the force that ate at him, haunting every thought and every breath. It mattered not. He was mortal, and he was doomed._

 

_“Talion.”_

He blinked, and raised his head.  His eyes stung, watery with unshed tears as the cold, harsh wind lashed at his face. He frowned, muscles tensing up as his bleary eyes and addled mind registered for the first time the sight of Cirith Ungol’s craggy heights.

.. _How **long**? but we were just- _ Talion tried his best to ignore the cold spike of fear in his belly, and struggled, clumsily, to right himself in the saddle. Beneath him, Vanilla trilled softly, pleased by his wakefulness. 

 _“Come.”_ The voice, again.He clutched at his head, hoping in vain to somehow ease the tension that throbbed and pulsed in the back of his head.

Wordlessly, he urged Vanilla to follow, his vision warping and shifting as the wraith world ebbed and flowed around him like the waves of the Sea.

_Relentless._

_Cold._

_Vast._

_Empty._

_**Empty** \- He was- **he** was **empty** , alone- Where was his companion? The horrid, empty echoing place inside his soul yawned open like a gaping wound- he felt sure that he would die, die **alone** , **again** \- they **left** him- left him on the bridge, **alone** , to **die** \- **Traitors.** \- He had been a fool to trust them. He had been a fool to think that they would not leave him, **alone** , **empty** \- _

Vanilla slowed to a stop, and his trembling, aching muscles gave way at last. He fell to the floor of the cavern with a dull, painful thud.

He remained where he fell for what felt like hours, staring mindlessly at the ring on his finger, before a skittering sound broke the silence from somewhere behind him. Vanilla crouched low over him, her warmth soothing against his back as she growled defensively, snapping her jaws at the intruder.

He knew, in some part of his mind- the one that was not busy screaming in horror at what he had done, what he had yet to do- that he should get up, move, do _something_ , but even the thought alone was too much, and it faded as quickly as it had come, crushed by the immense weight the ring’s presence. His bones felt as though they were made of stone. He could not move, could not even summon the effort to- the ninth ring chained him to the ground, and his will to its own.

And then, there was a shriek and Vanilla's warmth left him as she darted away, a sharp clack echoing through the cavern, making his ears ring. He was so cold.  He twitched, slowly becoming uncomfortably aware of the immense presence looming at his back.

“ _Talion_...” Shelob hissed patiently.

The weight of the ninth receded, and he rolled over onto his back sluggishly, staring blankly up at the massive spider above him. Her eyes blinked-

_Eyes. So many eyes. Staring at him, watching, waiting. Like the great Eye atop Barad-dur. He’d seen it- It had Seen him, too, the moment he’d put on that cursed ring. The Eye had **known.** It had known **him** , known **of** him- What could **that** mean- mean for his companions- **no** \- his **betrayers** -_

Shelob’s monstrous head hovered a foot above his, her mandibles clicking together idly. Many pairs of eyes tracked his movement with wry amusement as he startled, jerking backwards and slamming his head painfully into the ground. Chittering echoed from the cave around him- he rolled onto his side, still clutching at his head, and glowered- _more_ spiders- though, much smaller than their parent, swaying and scurrying as they kept their distance. One, much larger than the others, raised its front legs at him and waved them. One of Shelob's favorites, clever enough to survive long after her brood-mates- her oldest living daughter, the _messenger_. He scowled at it, but the chittering sound merely increased in volume as they scurried away.   _Laughter._

 _They were **laughing** at **him**_ , he realized.

_Ugh._

He sat up, rubbing at the back of his head and wincing.  The hand that reached out to steady him was human, and he shuddered, fighting off the ghostly afterimages of Idril, _Lithariel_ , ** _Ioreth_**  that the Great Spider's mortal form conjured as she knelt slowly to sit beside him. He leaned forward, and then opened his mouth to tell her, but the words stuck uselessly in his throat- _there's something wrong with me, what is it, can you fix it, explain it- make it **stop-**_

Shelob had drawn him into an embrace, one hand rubbing broad circles across his back. "You poor, brave Man. You have given so much, and yet still have so much more to lose." she murmured, softly, carding idly through his hair with the other. 

_**More?** _

_What more? he'd asked, when he'd last seen the Spider, despair mixing with dread. I have **nothing** left! he'd cried, sick with terror, the lie sounding false and hollow to his own ears even as he said it-_

He slumped forward against her shoulder, soft, bitter laughter choking off into gasping sobs that set his neck and jaws to aching again. 

"The ring you now bear is one of the Nine, Talion." she began, calmly. "It was _made_ for the _subjugation_ of Man. It _will_ try to take _everything_ from you- your will, your time, your _senses_ , your _memories_ , your _name_. It will take _anything_ it can and _twist_ it to use it against you. You _must_ resist."

He sat back, and she let him go. He shook his head slightly, overwhelmed, it was already a losing battle- he could feel himself slipping even now, _how did she expect him to-_

Shelob tilted her head and smiled sadly as she continued, answering his unspoken question. "You must learn to control _it_ before _it_ controls _you_." 

He nodded slowly, turning away from her slightly as he scrubbed at his face with one hand and drew in a shuddering, shaky breath.

Shelob frowned and reached out to cup his cheek in one hand, gently turning his head to look him in the eyes. "You are not alone in this, Talion- Celebrimbor and Eltariel were not your only allies- treacherous though they were. There are those, both man and orc and else, who would freely aid you in this task, if only you but asked, and they have more to offer than you'd think."

She withdrew then, and stood, gracefully offering a hand to him.

"Myself included." 

He took the offered hand, tilting his head curiously as he rose to unsteady feet. Shelob raised an eyebrow at him, a small half-smile quirking across her lips. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again, frowning, as she lead him a short distance away to a small alcove.  He hung back, toying with the fraying hem of his cloak.

There, set on a natural rock formation that formed a shelf of sorts, sat a dark, unadorned wooden chest. Despite it's unassuming appearance something about it made Talion's skin crawl. He shot a quick glance at Shelob, grimacing when she motioned for him to step closer. He reached for the latches, and then stalled, pulling away. He shook his head, and the Great Spider smiled patiently. 

* * *

 

 It was not until sometime later that he actually worked up the courage to open the chest. He couldn't help it, his instincts screamed danger- and, even though he knew Shelob had proved to be a far truer ally- still.

Inside the chest, set on a layer of plush, though slightly moth-eaten velvet, lay a set of armor.

"A gift." the spider murmured gently, touching a hand to his elbow as she stepped closer.

"Pardon me for being a little mistrustful of  _gifts_  in  _Mordor._ " he snapped halfheartedly, and then reluctantly, he sighed and reached out, and gingerly lifted the breastplate from its container. It glittered a sickly green and gold in the weak light pooling from the ceiling, and he held it at arms length, warily, as though it were a snake that might bite him. Unsettled, he examined the patterning and unusual shape of the armor, frowning at the strange sense of familiarity they evoked. He turned it in the light, this way and that, before setting it aside and, ignoring the set of greaves, pushed them aside in favor of pulling a pair of matching gauntlets from the chest. He turned them over cautiously in his hands, and raised an eyebrow at Shelob as he fingered one of the unusual spike-blades that protruded from the sides. She stared at him blankly, expression unreadable, and he turned, setting the gauntlets down next to the breastplate.  He turned towards her to speak, witty remark at the ready, and then out of the corner of his eye, he saw it, and his mouth snapped shut. _No._ He turned his head slowly to stare at the set of armor and went still.

Side-by-side, the pieces of armor slowly settled into a distinctive silhouette, an ostentatious and gaudy mockery of all his fears and nightmares. His eyes widened and he shook off the Spider's hand. For nearly 10 long years that monster had haunted his thoughts, had taken everything from him, and now she _dared_ \- He jerked backwards with a sharp intake of breath as though burned, and whirled around towards Shelob, snarling, heat blooming in his chest.

_"What do you mean by this-"_

" _Peace_ , Talion." She held her hands up disarmingly, shaking her head. "It is a _gift._ " she said, stressing the word. "And not one _intended_ to offend- The design is.... _unfortunate_ , true- but it is not the _same_ as..." she trailed off, meaning clear but unspoken. He narrowed his eyes, and she sighed.

"Were it within my power to change its shape to any other than what it was, I would. But, even if it were, I do not know that it could be done without risking damage to the spell-work lain into it. Without those, it would be worthless to you." 

He frowned. "It is inlaid with enchantments." she said matter-of-factly, as though this explained its supposed usefulness despite- He curled his lips up in distaste- _that_. He raised an eyebrow skeptically and continued glaring at her.  She rolled her eyes, stepping past him to pick up the breastplate.

" _Enchantments_ that will perhaps aid you with your.. _hm_.. _problem."_ she clarified, narrowing her eyes meaningfully and lifting the breastplate higher, shaking it slightly for emphasis. He scowled, crossing his arms as he leaned back away from her.

" _ **I.** **already.** **said. I was sorry.**_ " he ground out.

He couldn't resist adding, somewhat childishly "......Though _most people_ generally make a habit of storing their... _"_ he paused, wrinkling his nose in distaste _. " ...food _...__ in more reasonable places. Preferably where it can't, you know... _escape?_ "

"Be that as it may," She huffed. "It was _**my**_ dinner." 

He shrugged. "Well maybe you should make sure **_your_** _dinner_ is more... hmm, _oh,_ I don't know.. _**dead**_ _first_?"

The spider raised an eyebrow at him indignantly. " _It_. **Was.** "

He dropped his arms and looked away, scoffing. "..... Shelob, you do realize you live practically on the fort's _doorstep_ , **_yes_**? Somehow I'm hardly sure you'll _starve._ "

 "Need I remind you that I cannot actually _leave_ the caves to hunt? It will take some time before the larger tunnels are cleared of rubble again." 

Ah. There had been a rockslide, sometime before he and Celebri- before the bridge. His surviving Captains from Cirith Ungol had been discussing it.  _He had forgotten._  Talion frowned. 

"Couldn't you just- " he made a sweeping gesture at the cavern around them, where numerous pairs of eyes watched the proceedings with rapt attention from the shadows. " have your  _children_  do your hunting for you?"

"Normally, _yes._ " Shelob sighed, seating herself on a nearby rock. Following suit, he'd barely sat down before a sudden noise off to his left drew his attention. He turned warily, watching with furrowed brows as one of Shelob's children crept forward from the shadows, scuttling towards them. Approaching cautiously, it reached out with its forelegs, tapping them uncertainly on the hand Shelob offered to it, as though asking permission. She gently picked it up, smiling fondly as it scurried up her arm onto her shoulder. The smile faded as she continued. "But as of late they have been encountering.... issues."

Talion raised an eyebrow, nodding for her to continue.

"Orcs. _Captains._ " He snorted, he'd expected as much. _Since when were they **not** an issue._  

Shelob gently plucked the spider from her shoulder, setting it down. "Well. One in particular. An uruk of the Outlaw tribe, or so my children say, though his name escapes them." The spider tapped despondently at her legs, and she gently shooed it away. Talion kept a wary eye on it as it turned and began to make its way towards him. "He lays traps for them outside the tunnels that remain, killing those of my children that he catches, and keeps uruks clear of the openings, making it harder for those of my brood who elude him to hunt. "

Talion's eyes widened and he grimaced. "He intends to starve you." And he'd unintentionally allowed her larder to empty. He glanced towards the armor uncertainly. If he was to hold the forces of Mordor at bay, he couldn't afford to loose another ally.

Something tapped on his legs and he started, looking down to see the dog-sized spider swaying shyly in front of him, many eyes blinking up at him in an unspoken plea. He frowned, brows furrowing. It tapped at his legs again, and then, cautiously, he sat back a little, moving his hands out of his lap.

"Yes, it would seem likely." Shelob confirmed grimly.

The spiderling chittered happily, and scurried into his lap. He resisted the urge to shudder at the crawling sensation and, emboldened, it began nudging at his hand repeatedly. He moved his hand away. It followed.

He frowned thoughtfully. "What if..." he began, and then shook his head, starting over. He lifted his hand, and the spiderling shoved itself underneath it with a gleeful hiss, demanding to be pet. "I cannot accept your gift, Shelob. I meant what I said earlier. But-" She nodded.

"Only a fool trusts blindly." she murmured. "I have no reason to do you wrong, but... I understand."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "But." she repeated. "You have something in mind? What would you propose?"

 

"What if-" he mused, idly running his hand over the spiderling's back as it- he frowned. ... was it _purring_? "What if I were to find this captain, kill him for you. A favor, or a contract if you will. I'd be honor-bound to accept whatever form of payment you chose to give me." he said, trusting her to understand the hidden meaning.  

She blinked, and then a small, delighted smile spread over her face. "You are far more shrewd than many give you credit for, Talion of Mordor."

He blinked, frowning at the appellation, but said nothing, instead gently brushing the spiderling from his lap and rising to his feet. It hissed unhappily, waving its long, thin legs at him in protest. "Now, what do you know about this Captain's whereabouts?"

* * *

 

The armor was ....lighter than he'd expected. He'd fully intended to hunt the captain without it, but Shelob had insisted. "Consider it partial payment in advance." She'd proclaimed smugly. "Partial?" he'd exclaimed, incredulously, "What? Partial- Shelob, **_no._** " She'd _laughed_ at him and hushed him with a wave of her hand, pointing out that his own armor was so far damaged as to likely do him more harm than good.

He twitched, running his hands over the straps, irritated at having allowed himself to be so easily outmaneuvered. He shot a glare at Shelob. "Go on." she urged, smugness radiating off of her in waves.

"Rest, hunt, grow stronger. _Learn_.  Seek out those who would be your allies. Find the captain who slaughters my children. Cut him down, bring me his lifeless body, and _then_ I will consider your half of the contract fufilled. A favor for a favor." The Great Spider commanded, her form shifting and billowing like smoke as she returned to her massive true form once more.

"And then?" Talion prompted, disgruntled, pulling the tattered remains of his hood up.

A predatory gleam shown in the Great Spider's many eyes. "And then?" Her laughter was a strange, dissonant thing.  " _Oh_ , _and then_ , my dear Talion, you will be _ready_." Shelob retreated further into the shadows, till all but her eyes and great, sharp teeth were hidden in darkness.  

" ** _Minas Morgul awaits._** "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no betas we write like fools
> 
> pls point out any mistakes if ya'll see em. Thank.


	2. TA 2969, Udun, Mordor (56 years before the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Now I want to be a part of this_  
>  _Now I want to feel the blame_  
>  _Now I have to know the body count_  
>  _Now I have to see my face on it_  
>  _Now I have to be ashamed_  
>  _Now I have to know the bodies count"_  
>  Part of This- Son Lux
> 
>  _He bore a blackened metal band, inset with a red-gold jewel, and around it, inscribed: Hail to the Ninth, Commander of Men. Loyal beyond death, his legions, his armies unconquerable. Victory and glory to the Eye, all-seeing Lord of Mordor._
> 
> Talion's first attempt at raising Wights has....unexpected results.

 

  


Feanor had landed a respectable distance away, almost mindfully, as though she understood the significance of the small patch of graves. Having flown with her as much as he had, Talion would not be surprised if this were indeed so. He shifted in the saddle, uneasy, hands worrying over the reigns as he stared at the distant plot of earth. _He..._

He should not be here.

 _He_ **_should_ ** _be here- should be_ **_dead_ ** _\- should have_ **_died_ ** _with_ **_his family_ ** _, his_ **_comrades-_ **

His vision blurred and his world tilted sideways- Isildur’s ring seized the opportunity and rushed his unguarded mind, latching on like a half-starved caragor.. _He should have died- it would have been better than- than this. Cursed, he was cursed._

 

 _“A curse binds us together within the walls of Arda-” Celebrimbor._ **_Liar_ ** _, Traitor._

 

_“How do we break this curse?” His own voice, ragged, desperate, trusting. **Fool.** _

 

_“We must find the one who cast it on us-”_

**_Lies_ ** _\- more lies._

 

_“-and lay him low- the Black Hand of Sauron.”_

**_Lies, all lies_ ** _._

 _“This was_ **_your_ ** _doing! I should have_ **_died_ ** _with my family!”_

  


He lurched upright and then collapsed again onto his side, heaving and gasping for breath, trembling from the effort as he fought to wrest control back from the Ring, forcing himself to block out the fragmented, disjointed memories it spat back at him.

  Several moments passed before he rose, spitting out dirt with a grimace and a wheeze that bloomed into a rasping cough. Above him, Feanor whirred softly in concern, her broad snout nudging gently into his back. One hand wound its’ way up to clutch at his throat and the other flailed blindly in an effort to push her away. _Space. He needed space._

 

She squawked indignantly as she was shoved away, but nonetheless relented, shuffling backwards to crouch a few feet away.  

He half crawled, half stumbled out from underneath Feanor’s wings as she moved,  finally managing to stagger upright. He hurriedly brushed the dust and debris from his armor, glancing briefly back at the she-drake over his shoulder. She crouched miserably, staring at his back.

She caught him looking, and drew backwards, hissing and arching her neck, making a great show of quickly turning her head away and refusing to meet his eyes with a loud huff, pouting.

 

He snorted at the display, and turned uncertainly back towards the makeshift graveyard. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was here- perhaps Isildur’s words had struck a chord within him.

 

_“This is the fate of kings and men, Talion.”_

 

_“Your fate was once my own… But I, too, fell. As shall you.”_

 

He spared a glance down to the Ring on his finger, looking innocuous and benign in the pale sunlight which filtered weakly down through the clouds. He knew better than to think it such, now.

 

 _Necromancy, undeath,_ had been his initial understanding of the powers conferred to the bearer of the Ninth Ring, at least, as much as he had cared to think on it, and, while he had not been _entirely_ wrong, there was _more_ to it than that. Each of the Nine Rings for Men echoed in some way a part of the entirety of the One.

 

 _Authority. Command._ That was the Ninth’s true power. The Ninth could make even a weak fool appear a competent general, and make even a beloved leader greater still. It wove its way into it’s bearer’s speech, their attitude, their bearing, their thoughts. The people cheered louder, warriors became more loyal, speeches more inspiring, commands obeyed without question.

 

Isildur, desperate for stability in the wake of his family's deaths and in the face of his father’s greedy, power-hungry council, had fallen prey to much the same sort of power, though one far greater- that of the One Ring, the Master Ring.

 

He had ruled for but a little while, the One providing the authority and control he so desperately sought, all the while falling further and further under the influence of the Master Ring.  It had utterly _consumed_ him, till in the end he had become too paranoid to remove it, and then, at the very last, it had abandoned him to his fate.

 

 _Their fate, now shared,_ the Ninth whispered in his head. _You took up his mantle- all that was his, now belongs_ **_to you_ ** _._

 

 _Be silent!_ he snarled.

 

And though the Ninth was a lesser ring, nothing more than a pale, twisted reflection of the One Ring, it too, held the same power that had brought the former King to his doom. _Authority. The power to command, influence, control_.

 

He could _feel_ it.

 

A power that reached _beyond death itself_.

 

Could feel it in the way his Captains clamored, jostling and quarreling among themselves for the right to fight at his side, in the way issuing orders and commanding an army came easier to him, in the way it tried to worm its way into his speech, in the thoughts of lordship in a voice inside his head that sounded like his-but- _not_ , and the sense of _rightness_ at the titles they lauded him with-  a feeling that rang false which knew in no way came from him.

 

Subtle, but _there_. He shuddered.

 

It was... _insidious._

 

And yet…

 

He froze at the edge of the graves.

 

Authority, high command, a power he had no claim to, no want for, and yet… _perhaps._ His stomach churned. _Forgive me._ He murmured.  His breathing came shallow and quick.

  


When the massacre at the Black Gate had finished, not a soul had been left alive. Talion had done the best he could for his men, his friends, but to release them from their oaths was a power he did not have, so he had held onto the hope that perhaps Gondor would send someone, anyone. Even a letter would do, though none remained to receive it.

 

A false hope, he knew.

 

Gondor would not risk anything so dire for the old superstitions of their outcast Rangers, _exiles_ in every way but _societal politeness_.

 

Of _course_ they were not _exiles_ , of _course they could return, eventually, someday,_ **_maybe_ ** _-_

 

 _There must be a better life than_ **_this._ **

 

 _Not yet…. but soon, my love, the ring cooed, a false echo of his own voice. Ioreth in his arms, a blade-_ **_Acharn_ ** _\- to her throat- the slightest blooming line of red-_

 

Talion started violently, shaking the waking terror from his eyes. His foot caught on something, and down he went, landing in an awkward sprawl among the makeshift graves.  He lay there, shivering, pressing his his hands into the damp earth as though to anchor himself.

 

No, Gondor would not come for her fallen, forgotten sons- not in the face of the threat of Mordor, even though it slumbered as far as they still knew. For the lordlings of Minas Tirith, the massacre at the Black Gate was as far removed from them as the Sinking of Beleriand.

A tragedy, to be sure, but a distant one. One, preferably, in the Rangers’ case, to be swept underneath the rug and forgotten as soon as possible. Nothing more than a footnote in history, or an inspiring warcry, perhaps, if they were lucky. _“Remember the Black Gate!”_

But to travel all that way, to the edge of Mordor, now unguarded, all for the sake of some old Ranger superstition? An inconvenience, too _trivial_ a matter to be bothered with.

 

An _inconvenience_ \- _the lives of his men, his life, the lives of his wife and son, their passage to the afterlife_ \- an **_inconvenience-_ **

The anger he swiftly buried, too deep for the ring to reach- he would not let himself be blinded by hate- but the _guilt-_ the guilt _ate_ at him, had for years, and it was the one thing he could not seem to keep the Ring from grasping onto.

 

He allowed himself to hope, for one, brief moment, that perhaps this would work- his men, freed. A weight off his back, one less sin. Here- here was something he could possibly atone for, possibly _fix._

 

He scrambled upright, lurching desperately forward, only to lose his balance and stumble, catching himself on one of the tombstones, swaying unsteadily.  He let go, and stepped backwards until he stood approximately in the middle of the small graveyard. _He could fix this_ \- _he_ could _fix_ this- he cast about mentally as he reached out his hands- there. A humming well of power, fiery gold and blazing with heat, and suddenly, he could almost feel them. All he had to do was but reach out, call to them, he was their captain, and they were oath-bound, honor-driven to answer to the power in the ring thrumming on his finger- the-

The Ring. He dropped his hands, and the power faded. _No_.

 

_“Remember, Talion.” Shelob. “The ring you now bear is one of the Nine. It was made for the subjugation of Man.”_

 

_“It will take anything it can, and twist it, and use it against you. You must resist.”_

 

_“You must remain vigilant.  You cannot falter- you are the only thing standing between the Darkness and all of Middle-Earth.”_

 

_“Sometimes, in the war against darkness, stalemate is victory.”_

  


His palms were slick with sweat, and he grimaced at the fine layer of mud and dirt that clung to them, now smeared gracelessly across the headstone where he’d clung to it.

 _No_ , he thought, conviction growing. _They deserved better than that_ _. He would not dishonor his fallen comrades so with such... abhorrent magics._ He reached out to gently brush the dirt away, slowly tracing the name roughly carved there. His hand lingered uncertainly on the tombstone, and suddenly, with starling clarity, he remembered why he had come- the _flowers_.

 

He’d come here, guilty, but with pure intentions, and the Ring had built a clever ploy, preying on his fears and doubts and regrets, all without him being any the wiser. Had he learned _nothing_ from his time with Celebrimbor? One could simply not hope to turn the Enemy’s own weapons against him and _win,_ unscathed _._ Believing oneself safe and beyond its influence was where the fall began. The ring _relied_ on that, thrived on the unknowing, willful arrogance of it's bearers.

A clever ploy indeed.

Talion tried not to think about how close he’d come to falling for it.

 

He stood, and stumbled out of the graveyard, more mindful this time of where he placed his feet. “Fee!” he called to the she-drake. “Fee, girl, come here!”

Hissing in displeasure at being awoken from her nap she’d apparently settled into, the fire-drake reluctantly dragged herself from the bed of coals she’d made and lumbered towards him.  He darted to her side, thankful for the spellwork on his saddle-bags- they’d have long ago gone up in flames without it, and hastily undid the buckles, pulling from the bag a cloth-wrapped bundle, which he cradled awkwardly in the crook of his elbow, hands flying over the straps as he redid them. Finishing his task, he turned and slumped against the drake’s side, sliding down to sit in the dirt. Hesitantly, he picked apart the cloth wrappings. Above him, Feanor curved her lithe neck to stare down at him, whirring curiously.  He allowed himself a small smile, heaving a relieved sigh at the condition of its contents.

 

 _Minimal crushing and bruising, not dried out yet. Still alive._ He gingerly traced along one fragile petal, mindful of the clawed tips of his gauntlet.

 

**_Good._ **

 

Re-wrapping the bundle of pale flowers, he stood, bracing himself against Feanor’s broad snout as he rose to his feet. She huffed at him softly, but remained where she was. He patted her nose awkwardly before moving on, returning to the rows of graves.

  


He walked the rows quietly, eyes flickering from name to name.

  


_The twins._ Irritating, true, but good fighters. Brilliant even. Never seen apart- it was the least he could do to bury them side-by-side as they deserved. Flowers for both of them.

 _Flowers? For us, Captain? Oh, how romantic._ They would have teased, relentlessly. He rolled his eyes.

 

“Fools.” He muttered. “I’ve missed you.”

 _And we you, Captain._ Their voices chimed sweetly, tinged with barely contained laughter.

 

He blinked, frowning, and glanced up warily, almost expecting to see them sitting nearby, so clear and distinct their voices had been. Nothing. Nothing but him and the dead buried beneath him.

 

... _Odd._ Patting the shared headstone, he moved on.

 

 _Galamir_. Head of the night-watch. He laid a flower down, and then snorted. Oh, he would have _hated_ it.   _Oh, Talion, you hopeless fool,_ _take those somewhere else! Better yet, give them to your Ioreth, she loves those, doesn’t she?_

That sounded like something he’d have said, for sure.

 _Morwen._ One of the few women who hadn’t come in the company of their families, she’d been banished to the Black Gate only a year after Talion and Ioreth. He’d never asked why, and she’d never deigned to share, but they got along well enough, bound by the common bond of the unfair “justice” that had sent them there. He laid a flower down.

_Galamir’s right, Tal. Save those for Ioreth, they’re her favorite after all._

 

“Mor’…” he trailed off.

He shook his head, and knelt between Mor’s grave and Galamir’s.

  


“Come then, my brothers, my sisters, I ask that you hear me" he murmured. "-though I have failed you-”

 

_Captain._

 

 _The ring,_ he thought. _It was the ring-_ “- I do hope that one day-”

 

**_Captain._ **

 

 _Again, insistently. To think it would_ **_dare_ ** _use the memories of his comrades-in-arms against him- to speak with their voices- it would **not** win. _ He turned his head, focusing stubbornly on the gravestone in front of him.

 

“-Should we meet again, on some far shore-”

 

_Captain Talion._

 

“I….”

 

_Look, won’t you?_

**_No._ ** He ignored the plea, pushing on past the lump in his throat.

 

“...I do hope that you will be able to forgive me.”

 

 _We’ll damned well forgive you when you’ve done something that needs forgiving, you daft fool! Now,_ **_look_ ** _-_ his head snapped up and he glanced around wildly. He stood, backing away from the grave. That was too close, too similar to be any cheap imitation the ring could ever conjure.

 

“.....Galamir?”

 

 _-No, lad, It’s yer mother. Don’t ya’ remember- tall, spiky, looks an awful lot like a Ghul Matron_ -

“ **_...What?_ ** ” Talion barked, fighting to keep the bewildered indignation off of his face. He was going mad. Absolutely mad. Arguing with the voices of his long-dead friends. He’d finally lost it. A short distance away, Feanor raised her head and warbled at him, evidently concerned by her rider’s sudden erratic behavior. _This_ was how he fell to the ring, and it was _embarrassing._ He swung around in a circle, glancing wildly around the empty, barren landscape. He could almost hear Galamir sigh loudly.   _Not like that!_

He froze, and turned to stare at the older man’s tomb.

 _You’re looking the wrong way, boy_ . He glanced over his shoulder. Feanor blew a lazy stream of smoke out her nostrils, dragging her tail through the coals. _What_ was he supposed to be _seeing_ here- ”What, so you’re secretly a _dragon_ now? _Is that it?_ ”  he muttered to himself.

  _Lad. Lad, **no.** _

 

_We know you’re tired, Captain, but **come on**. _

 

Talion grimaced, furrowing his brows in confusion _._

_Oh._

 

_The wraith-_

 

_His vision blurred, and the world went bleak and grey, save for several bright forms of greenish, pale light. Wind howled in his ears, unnaturally cold._

 

 _From atop his perch on the beaten gravestone, Galamir uttered a long suffering sigh, crossing one leg over the other and nodding his head along in feigned boredom.  “The wraith world,_ **_yes_ ** _.”  Behind him, the twins punched each other in the shoulders._

 

_Talion stared._

 

_“You look like ya got run over by a Caragor. And then cursed by some orc. And then got stepped on by an Olog.” Morwen observed dryly._

 

_He blinked slowly.  “He probably did,” muttered another spirit from somewhere further down the row._

 

_“What.” he managed, at last. “H-how?”_

 

_Morwen smiled gently at him, and he suppressed a shudder as he fought off the images of her as he’d last seen her- a bloodied mess, surrounded by dead or dying orcs. “You called for us, Captain. How could we refuse to answer?”_

 

 _“I-_ **_I_ ** _called for you-? No.” He had halted before the ring could do anything- he hadn’t- hadn’t summoned them- He shook his head adamantly. “_ **_No_ ** _, that was not my intention- you must understand- I didn’t-”_

 

_“Oh, but you did, Captain. You asked us to listen. And we did. ….We’ve waited so long..”_

 

_“My friends, I fear you’ve waited in vain, I… They.. they will send no one, and I’d hoped… but such a thing is beyond even I-”_

 

_“Captain, that’s not what we were talking about-” Talion blinked, lifting his head._

_“-We’ve been waiting for you to call us, you dense fool. It’s about time you sought us out.”_

 

 _“Gal, please.” Morwen frowned over at her row-mate, before redirecting her attention to him.  “Captain. You’re planning to take on Minas Morgul, correct?” “And what, all alone? Did you learn nothing of tactics and strategy, lad-”   “Old man, if you do not shut your mouth I will shut it for you!_ **_Stop_ ** _interrupting me!”_

_“...What?” Talion narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that?”_

_“Oh Captain, you’re not nearly as subtle as you’d like to think.” He frowned at her. “ Oh, alright…. A little spider told me.” she added, grinning. “Wha-”_

_She continued on before he could finish. “Point is, Bright-eyes, you’re going to need help. Allies. I mean, sure, you could go to the orcs.” Here she made a face. “But what use is an ally that can die-”_

_Talion’s eyes widened as he caught on. “No, absolutely not. The Nazgul, they-”_

 

_“- can control spirits and bind then to their will? Yes. But only, what? Two of them? Like…. the Witch-king…. And..?” she stared at him expectantly, grinning triumphantly._

 

_“...Uh….?” Talion shrugged at her, confused. He’d only ever really fought three of them in battle long enough to understand their abilities in any sort of detail._

 

 _She rolled her eyes. “The other one is dead, you fool. You did that. Or so I heard, at least. That was_ **_actually your_ ** _doing?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. He nodded, uncertainly, and Galamir let out a low appreciative whistle. Behind them, the rest of the garrison murmured amongst themselves, impressed._

 

_“That settles it.” she declared. “We’re going to help you take back Minas Morgul.”_

 

_He shook his head. “No, I **refuse** to use that sort of magic- I won’t summon-” _

 

 _“Then **don’t**. Just _ **_ask,_ ** _Cap’n.” one of the twins stated, as though it were the most_

_obvious thing in the world._

  


* * *

 

_“...And nothing I can say will convince you not to?” He asked, staring around at his company, looking each of them in the face._

 

_“Nope.” “No.” “No sir.” “Absolutely not, Cap’n. You’re stuck with us.”_

 

_He frowned, hugging his arms across his chest. He bit at his lip. “....Fine.”_

 

_“But-” he held up a hand._

 

 _"If ever I do not ask-" he swallowed thickly, locking eyes with the loyal spirit in front of him. "If ever something calls for you,_ **_commands, summons_ ** _\- if it has my voice and it does not_ **_ask_ ** _for you to come-_ **_do not answer._ ** _It is not me, I am not there. This ring-" he swallowed, shame nearly choking him.”-it is-”_

 

_“We know, Captain.” Morwen cut him off. He froze, and looked up at her, cautiously. Morwen sighed wearily, but there was no judgement upon her face, only a brief flash of pity. “The wraith world hides nothing, Talion.” she added gently._

 

 _“I can only hold out so long. You_ **_must_ ** _know that I will one day fa-” he stressed urgently._

 

_She laid a spectral hand on his arm, the other reaching to clasp his shoulder in a soldier’s farewell. Behind her, the rest of the Rangers of the Black Gate vanished._

 

_“We know, and we do not care. We will come as long as you have need of us, Captain.”  she moved past him, and then vanished in a flash of light to join their fellows._

 

The wraith world fled, tearing apart like smoke in a strong wind. Morwen’s parting words echoed in his ears as color slowly crept back into his vision.

 

_“The rest of the world may have abandoned us, Captain Talion, but we will not abandon each other.”_

 

* * *

  
  


Perhaps, Talion would reflect much later, when all was said and done, and his long, tireless fight was over, perhaps his first clue to the truth  _should_  have been that Dirhael did not stand among the dead, nor had they ever counted him among their number.

 

At first, he had dismissed it, felt secretly glad that he would never have to face his son as he were, cursed and wretched.

 

Dirhael had not yet taken the Oath, after all, and was therefore not among the pitiable souls still honor-bound, he told himself. But, still- of all the bodies, he'd never found his kin.. and for none of the Garrison to recall seeing them, even in passing as their spirits fled the Circles of the World...

It mattered not.

His son was dead, true, but free, as was Ioreth, safe from the horrors of war. But as he had stood upon the Morgul tower-spire, looking out over the yawning distance to where Minas Tirith sat nestled at the foot of the distant mountain, blissfully unaware of the looming disaster that would soon befall it, something about the thought rang irrevocably hollow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oaths taken in Eru's name are powerful, binding things in Tolkien’s world, and the oath of guardianship the Rangers of the Black Gate make is no exception. Old superstitions posit that the oath binds a Ranger even beyond death, so a tradition sprang up among the Garrison that when a Ranger died, they were issued a formal release from their duty by a higher ranking officer. 
> 
>  
> 
> After the massacre on the Black Gate, there was no one left alive to release _any_ of them, including Talion himself.
> 
> *I'm only half-way certain that you can hear the oath in one of the loading screen voice-overs in SoM, but it's hard to hear anyways, so. yes. We'll just pretend for the sake of this AU that it actually does contain Eru's name, making it a validly binding oath with potentially Very Bad repercussions for souls that don't fulfill it. As for why? uuuuuhhhhh.... Being a Ranger is serious business?


	3. TA, 2970 Minas Tirith, Gondor, (55 years prior to the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What rage will usher me_  
>  Swallow the enemy  
> Buy innocence, buy innocence?  
> Lanterns illumine me  
> Incense from memory  
> Rise innocent, rise innocent  
> Ransom- Son Lux
> 
>  
> 
> _Ioreth and Dirhael adjust to life in Minas Tirith, or rather, they don't, and the city adjusts to them._

 

 

His grandfather is not a .. _cruel_ man, per say, but Dirhael is …..uncertain of what to make of his mother’s sire, the man who sent his family to the Black Gate, trapping his father and friends there to die and leaving his mother an angry, grief-ridden, vengeful reflection of herself. It was not Hallas’ decision alone, this he knows, but perhaps Dirhael is biased.

 

His father and brothers-in-arms on the Gate were dear to him beyond words, and are now dead, and _this man-_ who could have, _surely,_ found _some_ way to save them- is _not_.

 

He knows he does not _like_ the man, but Hallas took them into his household once more, reclaiming Ioreth as his daughter and heir, and worked to get Dirhael a position in the city guard. They cannot afford to lose what help he gives them, despite their feelings on his actions of the past.

 

He wonders, still, why his mother did not simply take them to Rohan, or Dale, or, _hells_ , even _Bree_. He suspects that it might have had something to do with him, but, yet, he cannot quite bring himself to tell her, that, in hindsight, he would have been quite content to follow wherever she led.

The glamorous illusion has now fallen- this is not the gleaming white city of heros and seat of kings of old- there is dirt here too, and despair, and the palaces and homes of noble families crumble  and decay slowly, falling into oblivion after their long-departed masters.

* * *

 

Mother will not speak to grandfather more than is absolutely necessary, and Dirhael can tell it pains the elder man.

 

She does not _say_ as much, but she makes it quite clear that she holds him responsible for the aching loss that plagues them like a phantom limb.

 

Perhaps Hallas does as well, despite his ill-hidden derision of Dirhael’s father, for, late in the winter, he announces his plan to ride to Rohan, and then from there, to the Black Gate. He shows them the writ of release, dearly won with much maneuvering behind the council’s back, with a direct signature from the Steward himself, and Dirhael is shocked to see his mother smile at Grandfather for the first time since their arrival.

Spring comes, and Hallas departs with no great fanfare. As far as any others know, Hallas has business in Rohan- he cannot hang his reputation upon an old Ranger superstition. Dirhael tries his hardest to banish the resentment he feels slither in his belly, reminding himself that the man aims to do right by their tradition- despite what he and others might think of it regardless.

Little love held he for his former son-in-law and his garrison, but for his only daughter’s sake he will do anything, even this.

 He rides away into the North, and they hear of him from Rohan, a letter scrawled in his grandfather’s looping hand that Ioreth gives a cursory glance over before setting aside.

 

It is the last news they receive of him alive.

 

A messenger from Rohan arrives months later, bearing ill tidings- Lord Hallas of Minas Tirith had fallen, ambushed by uruks. He had perished within sight of the Black Gate, and the writ of release lost with most of his remains. His signet ring and sword had been retrieved, miraculously, from the corpses of a pair of orcs that had remained to scavenge his horse.

 

His mother takes the news quite calmly, receiving the messenger with all the training her station entails. Only after he has said his piece, and is gone from their house, does she dismiss the servants and send them home. She returns to parlor after they have left, calm and dignified. The door slams shut behind her, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary as she strides into the room, and the calm melts away. 

Dirhael has never seen her so furious, and with an angry snarl that sounds more animal than human she crosses the room, and hurls the signet ring out the open window that looks out into the inner courtyard.

 

“Mother-” he begins, softly, uncertain of how to comfort her, kneeling to sit beside her as she sinks to her knees. He reaches out a hand. He opens his mouth again, and then closes it, frowning. Despite his many faults, the man still had been his grandfather, his mother's sire. She shakes her head, the rage still simmering in her eyes, and for a moment, Dirhael fears she will push him away, but to his surprise, her eyes soften slightly, and she pulls him closer. “Oh, my son,” she murmurs into his shoulder. “My sorrow, my- ..this anger- it is not meant for _him_.” Her embrace is fierce, but then again, so is everything she does nowadays. 

 

 _It is for Father that she grieves still_ , he realizes, so _enraged on his behalf, on behalf of their friends and all of the Garrison._

He leans into her embrace.

The position is awkward, and his legs are starting to cramp, but he does not care. This is his mother, and she is all he has left. She holds him as though she is afraid she might lose him by letting go.

 

“My son, fate is cruel to us still.” she says, straightening to look him in the eyes. Her tone is forceful, commanding and full of determination, but the hand on his cheek is gentle. “But, let it not be said that we did not strive to _spite_ it nonetheless. Come, we have work to do.”

 

He waits until she has retired to her bedroom before slipping out into the courtyard to retrieve the ring, though he suspects it is a useless endeavor, and that she knows anyways.

 

* * *

  


“Another kinsman lost to the horrors of Mordor.” murmured the ladies and lords when rumor reached them.

“Such a pity, poor woman.”

 

His mother snorts derisively when he mentions it. “They know nothing of the _‘horrors of Mordor’.”_ she tells him. “They have not _seen_ Mordor, not as _I_ have. For all its harshness, its bleakness, there was a sort of…. beauty too.” she murmurs, almost wistfully. Dirhael stares at her. “.......Despite the fact that it is the source of the evil that threatens us,  that it breeds the cause of the deaths of my father, my husband, all my dearest friends, despite its darkness...” She trails off, and mother and son sit in silence beside the fireplace for a while, Hallas’ sword laid across his mother’s lap. Her hands twist about the pommel and leather grip of the blade aimlessly, and when she turns to him again, Dirhael is not entirely convinced the light in her eyes is wholly of the fireplaces’ reflection.

 

“...I want to go back.”

 

He stares at her, brows furrowed, he opens his mouth, and she shakes her head, shushing him. She reaches over to pat his hand, unconcerned. "Not today, not this year. But... _sometime_. Eventually, I.... I think I would like to go back."

 

* * *

  
  


“Such a piteous death,” the ladies commiserate, flittering about his mother aimlessly. “All alone in the dark before the gates of Mordor itself. How tragic.” Dirhael grits his teeth and forces himself to remember his mother’s lessons on etiquette.  His thoughts seethed with a steadily growing resentment.  _There was no great carrying on or weeping when my father died, when my friends died- an entire garrison, butchered. Your last protectors- were not their lives worth mourning too?_

He feels somewhat relieved when he notes his mother’s grip tightening almost imperceptibly on the hilt of the dagger she carries today. He is not alone in his thoughts, it seems. The others around her carry on, oblivious. Before, Dirhael would have likened their shimmering dresses to the wings of butterflies or song-birds, but now, dressed in drab funerary colors, he thinks they look a bit more like moths. Or Morgai flies. He shudders, and his mother’s voice cuts through their wailing keener than any knife.

 

“It was a _good_ death.” she declares.

They rush to agree "Oh but of course, a good noble deat-"

 

“ _Fitting_.” she adds, darkly, and their eyes widen and they scatter and, slowly, they trickle away, pretending they do not hear. 

 

Wordlessly, he moves to her side when they have gone, and offers her the ring.

 

His mother takes the signet ring, and does not weep.

* * *

 

A petty lord from a lesser house, Dirhael had no idea what the man had hoped to achieve through this. At least he'd chosen to accost them in a crowded market square, rather than an alleyway. _Perhaps an audience?_ Dirhael snorted, and fixed a nearby lingering group of onlookers with a glare. They moved on.  _He was sincerely tired of drama-mongers._

“It’s just…. Well, it’s rather….. _unseemly_ for a .. _lady_ to go around carrying a sword, don’t you think?” the man turned to Dirhael, looking for agreement with a slightly nervous laugh. Dirhael had not missed the significance of the dismissive pause on 'lady', and met the nobleman’s smile with a unsmiling, steady stare.

“...I fail to see how it’s any of _your_ business what my mother chooses to do in her spare time, m'lord.”

 

“Ah-” the man began, but Dirhael’s mother cut him off with a wave of her hand, gently pushing Dirhael out of the way. Ioreth raised a brow, her face impassive as she stared coolly at the man.

“There was a tale,” his mother says sweetly, feigning a noblewoman’s airs with an ease that still makes him uneasy even after all this time, if only because it is so far removed from the mother he knows. “That went about, when my husband and I were sent to the Black Gate, that suggested that Talion fought and killed the ...lordling,” she all but spat the word, a carefully mocking echo of the man’s earlier tone. “-who would have….. _imposed_ himself where he was not _wanted_ \- by himself, _alone._ ”

She leaned in closer, tilting her head just so.  She smiled, the very picture of grace, but the smile was all teeth, and her eyes shone with that strange light again, and not for the first time in his life, Dirhael looked upon his mother and was suddenly reminded of a Dire Caragor.

 “Let me assure you, my lord. _That was not the case._ ”

She stepped back, hand moving to rest on the hilt of her sword deliberately. The man paled as he understood her implication, and fumbled his way through a hasty farewell, and fled.

 

They were left in peace after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ioreth just really fucking enjoys antagonizing her social "peers", apparently. 
> 
> Hallas will probably get more retroactive post-humous fic-time in another chapter if I feel like exploring Ioreth's relationship with her father more.  
> Her total non-reaction miight seem a bit. cold. but. we'll get to that.
> 
> Poor Ioreth.  
> Your whole world has just ended, and you go back home and absolutely nobody gives a shit, sooooooo yeah, she's a little.... bitter. (although she was Already Bitter to begin with, she just had Talion to temper that, but now she doesn't.)  
> So is Dirhael, for that matter. Despite knowing that his father and mother had been technically-not-exiled to the Black Gate, he'd kinda grown to idealize Gondor in his head -and Minas Tirith, by extension, as this Good And Noble Place That Is Happy And Free, but, no, it's just as much of a Crapsack World as the rest of Middle-Earth, only it just looks prettier sometimes.  
> Things eventually get better for them, I swear. 
> 
> tenses what tenses. Point out mistakes if ya'll see em, please. I'm sure there are plenty.


	4. TA 3019, Osgilaith, Gondor (Seven Years Prior To The Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I heard a whisper on my shoulder_  
>  _Pretending life is worth the fight_  
>  _Oh can you hear the song of thunder_  
>  _When fear strangles a soldier's pride_  
>  _And on the surface of the waters_  
>  _Will dance reflections of the fire in the night_  
>  The Other Side- Woodkid
> 
>  
> 
> _The revelation of the last of the Nine brings old memories to the fore._

As Arwen led him away, Dirhael couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he had _seen_ this before.

 

It was only later that Dirhael realized _where_.

 

_The last defenses of Osgiliath were routed._

 

 _What pitiful amount of Dirhael’s troop that had remained, now scattered in blind terror around him as the faceless horror_ _swung down from its great black steed in one fluid movement. He redoubled his efforts, struggling to pull the injured ranger to his feet, never once taking his eyes off of the wraith as the masked creature circled them in a leisurely, predatory manner, slowing to a halt in front of them._

_Dirhael considered the gate leading out of the courtyard, biting his lip. He doubted they would make it in time, even if his comrade was uninjured. He’d seen how these… Nazgul moved. Fast. Inhumanely so. Deadly too._

 

_The masked wraith tilted its head- a sharp, unnatural movement, more akin to that of a bird than any living man._

_It stepped closer, and it took all of Dirhael’s willpower not to flee then and there, and leave his companion to his fate. He trembled with the effort, scarcely daring to breathe, such was the weight of the raw aura of_ **_terror_ ** _the creature inspired around it._

_“Go.” the wraith commanded, suddenly. Dirhael started, nearly bolting from the courtyard at the sound of its voice, distorted and warped by the mask. It sounded like- no. He shoved the thought from his mind. It spoke with the voice of the damned and dying, stilted Westron a pained and rasping mockery of his kinsmens’ speech, stained with the harsh accent of Black Speech. He shuddered._

_“Flee this place. Nothing remains for you here, only..” it paused, head tilting minutely, balefire flickering between the tips of its clawed gauntlets meaningfully. “....death.” It raised its arms, and Dirhael felt his hair stand on end as the balefire flickered and then flowed down its arms and over its shoulders, spreading out until a raging inferno formed an unnatural, perfect circle around the ringwraith.  From the inferno’s heart the creature spoke again, and it’s shape appeared to Dirhael’s eyes- for but a moment- not unlike that of a Man, hooded and armored, with bright glowing eyes that felt like they pierced his very soul. A renewed fear washed over him at the sight, sudden and cold. He could only dimly hear his heart hammering in his chest._

_“This city belongs now to the dead-”_

_It spread its fingers, head tilting back, and the inferno expanded, rushing through the courtyard, washing over the bodies of Men and Orcs alike. Dirhael suppressed a gag at the immediate stench of charring human flesh._

_“-and the dead will keep it.” the spectre finished, lowering its arms once more. The man-shaped illusion fell as the inferno died, and Dirhael could only watch in horrified fascination as the dead orcs around the courtyard began to convulse, and then rise with an unnatural crackling of bones and gurgling, bubbling groans. The wraith stepped backwards out of the smoking circle of blackened stonework, and turned on its heel, left hand flicking up into the air._

_Dirhael saw clearly, for a moment, the ring upon the Nazgul’s hand- a blackened metal band, inset with a red-gold jewel that pulsed violently with a sickly, fiery light. Balefire flickered briefly over the ringwraith’s gauntlet, and in the distance, a roar unlike anything he’d ever heard before shook the ruined city._

_The hand was lowered, and then the wraith shifted, moving as though holding an invisible bow. Almost on command, a bow of ghostly light formed in the wraith’s outstretched hand, a phantom arrow following suit in the other as it was rapidly nocked and drawn._

_An immense shadow rushed over the courtyard, and the roar of wind and..something else filled Dirhael’s ears, shaking the very earth around them, and it was all he could do for a moment to just keep himself and his companion upright. When he could look again, the ringwraith had vanished, and the revenants stumbled about the courtyard mindlessly, ignoring them in a way that seemed entirely too complete to be incidental. Dirhael watched them hesitantly, and then made for the doorway._

 

_“Lieutenant Dirhael!?” a familiar voice cried incredulously- his Captain! Lord-Captain Faramir was still alive?- and Dirhael whipped his head around. ‘Sir? Captain Faramir? Over here!” he called out, careful to keep his voice low._

_“Dirhael! Was that one of those foul wraiths? How did you ever manage to escape it?” the nobleborn Ranger queried as he approached, and then, noticing Dirhael’s injured companion, waved off Dirhael’s response, instead rushing forward to help. Dirhael felt a faint rush of pride- this man was his captain, and though the son of one of the most powerful nobles in Gondor- he never seemed to lose his humility. It was partially why he’d been so adamant on joining the man’s Rangers in Ithilien._

_“Nevermind that,” Captain Faramir murmured, and then, with a false lightness to his voice that did not quite reach his eyes, “you can tell us all about it once we’ve escaped and made it back to Minas Tirith safely, eh?”_

_The man sighed, and added, mostly to himself, “...The Lord Steward will not be pleased to hear of our failure here, but hear of it he must.”_

_Dirhael frowned at him, and then ventured uncertainly. “.....I wouldn’t say he’d be wholly displeased, my lord. At least you’re still alive.”_

_The smile slid off the older man’s face, and Captain Faramir laughed, bitterly and without humor. “One would certainly think it so, wouldn’t they?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirhael "steals" the Ringwraith's horse (which Tal might or might not have left there specifically for that purpose) and rides it during their escape back to Minas Tirith. He decides, amid protests from noblemen and his fellow rangers alike, to keep the horse, and ends up riding it during the Expedition. This is, unfortunately, the same horse we later learn is eaten during their captivity in Cirith Ungol.  
> It.... _might_ come up again later.
> 
> Although technically standalone, this chapter and the next few will be referenced heavily in upcoming plot developments in the main story.


	5. TA 3019, Osgilaith, Gondor (Seven Years Prior To The Expedition), Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I remember cheering from towers_   
>  _A face is smiling in the light_   
>  _I remember the bells, the flowers_   
>  _Those days are dying in the dark_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Boy I was shaped for the fury_  
>  _Now I pay the price_  
>  _Of the human race's vice_  
>  _And I was promised_  
>  _The glorious ending of a knight_  
>  _But the crown is out of sight_  
>  The Other Side- Woodkid
> 
>  
> 
> _The Ninth rebels._

His head felt clearer than it had in years as he guided his drake up into the air above the ruined city.

Now safely beyond the range of any archers’ reach, he leaned over the saddle as his mount wheeled through the air high above the courtyard.  Far below, he could dimly make out the distant figures of the remaining Rangers making good on their escape- one of them perched atop his great black Morgul war-horse.

 

Beneath his mask, a smile ghosted over the ringwraith’s face.

 

_ Good. _

 

Satisfied, the Ninth turned his attention back to the skies, thundering wing-beats in the distance signalling the rapid approach of his brethren. Wordlessly, the nameless wraith urged his mount to circle again, turning about to face the others.

 

_ “Fool!”  _ his brothers screeched into his head, their fell beasts swooping to harass his much smaller- though more agile she-drake, shrieking as they bore down on her with talons and teeth. She screamed back, twisting out of reach of their grasping talons, snapping her jaws in warning at the others, echoing her rider’s rebellious mood. 

“ _ You allowed them to live, defied our Lord! _ ” the Third snarled, the Sixth echoing his accusation with a wordless shriek. The Fourth remained silent, their mount wheeling soundlessly as they looked on.

 

_ “Our Lord’s orders did not concern  _ **_them_ ** _.”  _ the Ninth sneered dismissively.  _ “There is little that can be done now.”  _ he added with a wave of his hand.

 

_ “See how they flee towards the city of Men? Do not our brothers lead armies upon it even in their wake? They will die soon enough.” _ he stated calmly, head held high. 

 

He would not have dared such a show of open rebellion if the Witch-king were here, or even the Second- but they were not, instead marshaling the troops of their Lord as they marched upon the ancient city of Men in the distance. 

 

Minas Tirith _ \- our home- _ **_no_ ** _ \- never  _ **_our_ ** _ home-  _ would fall to the Witch-King’s might soon enough, and the part of him that had inspired such rebellion wailed forlornly at the thought.

 

_ “Our Lord’s orders concerned the successful capture of this city and  _ **_complete_ ** _ eradication of all its defenders-”  _ the Sixth snapped, the rest of their retort cut off by the Third as they brought their fell beast careening roughly into the Ninth’s drake, roaring furiously. The smaller she-drake struggled in vain, flapping her wings and biting at her captor uselessly, her shrieks echoing her rider’s dismay as the much larger and stronger fell beast drove them towards the remains of a crumbling white tower.  _ “ _ **_Heresy!_ ** _ ”  _ the Third shrieked, enraged. _ ” Traitor! You  _ **_dare presume_ ** _ to know the mind of our master-” _

 

Rage swept through the Ninth as that rebellious part of them rose again to the fore, and they urged their drake to go still, against her instincts, folding in her wings.

 

 ** _Kill_** _-_ the rebellious part of them snarled. **_Kill_** _\- they-_ ** _he_** _\- would kill them-_ ** _it_** _-_

 

Confused by the sudden show of submission but assured of its victory, the fell beast’s grip slackened- though it drove on, goaded by its rider- and the wraith jerked the reigns to the left, hard. The drake swerved accordingly, throwing their opponents off balance. Spinning in the air so that their places were reversed, the Ninth and his drake allowed their momentum to carry them forward, driving their opponents towards the tower.  A surge of sudden confidence welled in the nameless wraith. _They-_ ** _he_** _had killed them- them, (their?_ ** _his?_** _) brothers- no,_ ** _enemies_** _\- not his brothers,_ ** _never_** _his_ ** _brothers_** _\- before- before the ring, before when he had been two-in-one instead of one-in-nine-_

 

_ “ _ **_ENOUGH_ ** _.” _ a soundless voice bellowed in their heads, and the Fourth intervened, their fell beast’s immense wings buffeting both opponents as they dove through the squalling mass, breaking the fighting pair apart at last.  

The Ninth despaired briefly as their ring burned with sudden power, and the almost-memory faded just as suddenly as it had come, driven beyond grasp or recall- but despite this, they could not help the flush of smug pride as they noted the Fourth’s intervention had come too little, too late for their opponent.  

 

The Third, thrown further off balance by the Fourth’s intervention, tumbled through the air and crashed into the tower, helpless to slow their mount in time or change direction. The fell beast crumpled to the ground, already in its death-throes, shrieking in terror as it and its rider were quickly buried amid the falling rubble, and something like elation flooded the wraith’s being.

 

Their brothers circled warily, watching as the tell-tale cloud of balefire-and-smoke flowed out of the rubble, signaling the dispersal of what remained of their brother’s corporeal form, and sped East like an arrow towards Barad-dur. The Fourth looked on for a moment, then rounded on the rebel Nazgul furiously.

 

_ “ You fool- we are now one less, and precious time that could have been spent righting your transgression is now wasted, and our efforts in dire peril- See, now, how the White Wizard approaches- _ **_Go!_ ** _ Catch them, ‘fore he comes too close, or else your folly shall lose us this whole campaign, and we will  _ **_all_ ** _ pay dearly for your impudence.“ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ironically, Sam and I both started writing about the aftermath of Dirhael's encounter from Talion's pov, and they flowed together better than we'd initially thought they might, so both of those chapters ended up here. *shrugs*
> 
> the Fourth is tentatively coded as being Helm Hammerhand.


	6. TA 3019 Barad-Dur, Mordor: Love Without Talking of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nazgul were punished for any rebellion, no matter how small. They all knew this, even the Ninth, but it was only the Ninth who believed the sacrifce to be worthy.
> 
> (Talion is not completely lost, but what little he does to help only makes things worse for him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from  
> “Be a knife thrower - be the artist who aims so that he won’t hit his friend. Write about love without talking of love - be precise in how you avoid the words, and not only in how you pick them. Steer away from your subject, from those places everyone visits - remain along the coast instead, because a knife thrower never gets too close. A dead centre blade is a mistake; there is more grace in missing - just barely - what you were aiming for.”  
> ~Erri De Luca
> 
> Alternate Title:  
> Sam can't figure out the scene in the main story, so she likes to write random angsty scenes mildly related to the scene she's writing. (Writing is hard, my guys.)
> 
> Takes place immediately after the two preceding chapters!!

The Nazgul jerked up as the Wizard’s light hit it in the face, shrieking. It leaned low over the drake as they flew away, the light chasing them unerringly to cut them off from the fleeing Gondorians. _The White Wizard_ , Sauron snarled in his head. _Always meddling_.

 

Their Master was always right, and if he complained about the Wizard than he must be right. Yet… A part of the wraith wished to turn back into the bright _burning_ light and revel in the joy it had brought, even as it scorched the Ninth’s fragile being.

Light always brought pain with it, the Nazgul knew, had known even before they had been a Nazgul. _Bright hand holding a bow, bright face standing before him, bright hand shining on the faces of orcs, Bright Lord,_ **_betrayal_ ** _-_. Now the pain was physical instead of… the Ninth couldn’t remember how else it would hurt. A tightness in its chest? Feeling as if they couldn’t breathe? It felt as if it was choking on something, but they didn’t know what.

 _Return to me_ , the Lord of Mordor’s voice thundered with rage.

The Ninth bowed their head subserviently at the knowledge of what brought their Master’s rage. It didn’t know why it had allowed the Gondorians to escape Osgiliath for so long, but something had shot through their being when it had seen the young Ranger standing next to the Captain of the Guard. Something about the man had been… familiar. It _couldn’t_ kill him.

 

(“Run, Dirhael!” Talion shouted. Dirhael’s head snapped up, clearly unsure of where his dead father’s voice was coming from. “I don’t want to kill you!”)

Of course, they had known that leaving them to escape would not save all of the Gondorians, and had followed in pursuit when they realized what it had done. However, the damage was already done, and the Wizard was able to burn the Nazgul away.

The Dark Lord was not going to like this failure and they would suffer for it. Whether their Master was going to punish only this one, or all of their brethren was in question, but the inevitability of punishment was not. The Lord of Mordor did not forgive.

 

The drake shrieked as she clutched the side of Barad-Dur. The Nazgul would not flinch from their punishment. It had allowed the mission to fail. The swirling in their gut and pounding in their head meant nothing, was nothing. Nothing was wrong with their noncorporeal forms, so it was nothing.

 

The Nazgul were nothing.

 

 _Fear_ was nothing.

 

_Choking on his blood, left to die alone, please help me, please come back, I don’t want to die!_

 

If they misbehaved, they were punished.

 

_What did I do wrong? Why have you left me alone? Do I mean so little that you will leave me here alone?_

 

Fear was nothing.

 

_Celembrimor, please!_

 

“You disobeyed me,” their Master said, voice calm.

 

_Rain hid the tears on his face as he struggled toward Dirhael, unable to stop the sword slitting his throat._

 

“Yes, Master,” it said. “I await my punishment.”

 

_This is my punishment. I must stay here until I have lost myself to the Ring. I must atone for my sins._

 

Nothing happened. It waited. Its Master would exact its punishment in due time.

 

_He hated waiting. It did nothing but let the Ring whisper into his ear, corrupting his thoughts._

 

Pain ripped through their throat, choking it. It opened their mouth to scream, but nothing came out _oh god nothing, he couldn’t scream, why couldn’t he scream, please help, anyone, he would do anything, just make it stop!_

 

It panted harshly as the pain ebbed down to a dull throb cut through with sharp pain that lanced through their brain. It stood carefully from the crouch that it hadn’t realized that they’d fallen into. The Ninth turned to their Master, straightening their spine and locking their joints.

 

“Never tell your enemy to run,” the Dark Lord said.

 

 _They are not my enemy,_ a voice growled at the back of the wraith’s head. It ignored the voice. It knew who its enemy was, and the Lord who controlled him was not it.

 

The Nazgul opened their mouth to respond, but pain tore through their throat at the attempt, and its hand went to its throat. _A line of fire was running across his throat, and he was gasping as liquid ran down his throat, cutting off his air_. It clenched their hand and the armor crumpled, warping back into place as it took its hand away.

 

Gleaming eyes met the Ninth’s gaze, and he felt something like fury ripple through him. How dare this creature take one of the few things he had left from him? Talion was going to rip him apart the moment he could, right after he flung Celembrimbor’s thrice-damned ring into Mount Doom and-

 

Isildur’s Ring tore through his mind like a caragor, destroying the fragile control that had been stolen back.

 

The Nazgul knelt before their master to acknowledge its punishment. It was fitting, considering their crime. It could not say as much, but their Master was wise, and knew what the Ninth thought of it. Anything else was intolerable.

 

“Very good, rebellious one,” the Dark Lord said. “Return to Osgiliath and destroy anyone else that remains.”

“Yes, Master,” the wraith signed. “It will be done.”

 

Their Master turned his attention away from it, clearly dismissing them. They stood, turning and returning to the waiting drake. It had a job to do and it would be done, as their Master willed. It was a joy and a pleasure to serve the Master as closely as they did, and it was happy to have the trust of the Dark Lord.

  
_So why was he crying?_


	7. TA 3020, Gorgorth, Mordor, (Six Years Prior to the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Find your voice in the sea of surging bodies and breath  
> To form a melody, to form a melody  
> Free a song from their lungs, our children's daughters and sons  
> To find a remedy, to find a remedy"  
> Remedy- Son Lux
> 
> _There were children in Barad-dur's shadow._

It has been nearly a year since Sauron's fall, and Talion has finally dared return to the blasted, barren lands surrounding the ruins of Mordor's heart. For nearly a year, he'd limited himself to correspondence with his Captains and War-chiefs, or through the intervention of Baranor, or Idril, or Eltariel, who wordlessly volunteered. He was grateful to them for their help, that with them, he did not have to pretend a strength he did not yet have. 

But, now...

There were children in Barad-dur’s shadow.  

Slaves, thralls, just as their family before them. Talion himself did not go there- of all the horrors of Mordor, the ruins of the Tower are the only one he cannot bring himself to face, frightened of what he might find there, even now, of what _it_ could _do_ to _him_ \- but he knows secondhand through reports of the brave and valiant slave-rescuing band that found them. Muzu the Fierce, an oddly gentle fellow despite his misleading appellation, lead the raid on Barad-dur’s ruins and found them there. One of the more ......progressive of his captains in the Gorgoroth region, he’d dutifully brought them back to the fort.

 _Alive_ and _unharmed_ even. Small miracles. 

Born in the shadow of the dark tower, the children have only ever spoken Black Speech. Talion himself is fluent, despite dearly wishing it otherwise, as it has simply become a necessity- here in Gorgoroth it’s usage is more common than not- though his knowledge of the tongue comes from a place much darker than that. Sauron’s orders were always delivered in that cursed tongue- when he deigned to even _speak_ to his Nine as a whole.

Talion greets them on the bridge as soon as the runner reaches him with the news. The children huddle uncertainly in a group, eyes dark and fearful, save for a little girl who has adamantly attached herself to Muzu's side, cheerfully chattering away in Black Speech. Muzu, for his part, merely looks somewhat bemused, and seems only mildly annoyed when he has to repeatedly shoo the child's curious hands away from the wicked hooks hanging from his belt as he makes his report.

“We couldn’t leave them there, boss. It was just... _empty_. There was nothing there, true. I mean- no ghosts or wights or Shriekers-” Muzu stumbles to correct himself, suddenly mindful of exactly who he is speaking to, fumbling with the hook on his left as he pries it out of the child's grip. “Erm, sorry, Nazgul- _No! Don't touch that._ \- , uh, no sign of the ...other...  _Nazgul,_ or anything, y’know..." his voice drops to a whisper "....  _more_." 

No sign of _Sauron_ , _of Celebrimbor_ , he means, Talion knows. This relieves him, _some_. But, still, he will not go _there_ \- that is a task to be left to the Men who will come after, the lords of Gondor- who he knows _will_ come. It is only a matter of time. And they must hurry, if they are to be ready when they come: the difference between yet more senseless war and a lasting peace _depends_ on it. 

"But still, they was just _pups._ Pups can’t survive on their own out there.” Muzu states bluntly as he finally gives up and reaches down, picking up the girl with a gentleness that was comically at odds with the stern features of his face. The scarred Captain's eyes widen noticeably, and then soften, when the child laughs gleefully and wraps her arms around him in a hug. 

"Big!" she proclaims, Black Speech a harsh contrast with the musical tones of her voice. "Big! Friendly!"

Talion snorts, and a couple of the mercenaries standing nearby chuckle.

Realizing he is being watched, Muzu scowls halfheartedly, his attempts at removing the child only causing her to giggle louder and tighten her embrace.

"Oi! Quit that, ya' wee ghul. Stop tryin' ta strangle me, it's not even effective, i've fought _rats_ stronger than you." he growls, and the girl shrieks with laughter. Muzu looks hopefully to Talion, and he nods graciously, waving him away.

"Well, Boss?" Tarz the Terror, his bodyguard for the day, inquires, as they watch Muzu and a few of the mercenaries lead the small group away. "Wha'dda we do with 'em? We may have some Tark mercenaries here, but well..... to be honest, Gorgoroth ain't no place for a bunch o' pups anyways, an we don't exactly have the boys to spare to keep these'uns outta trouble....."

Tarz had been with Talion since the earliest days of his campaign in Gorgoroth, a loyal veteran of the very first siege he and Celebrimbor had led. As a Warchief, he was familiar with the daily goings of the fort in a way Talion was not, and Talion trusted him to speak truth about such matters. "...Rations are tight right now, and we've got lots of work to do to repair the damage the Collapse did ta' the fort.", Tarz admitted, voice low, gesturing at the southern end of the fort, still smothered in rubble and ash. Talion nods slowly, thinking. It made sense that Gorgoroth would struggle more than the other forts- having been hit from two sides by the explosion of both Barad-dur and Mount Doom at once. 

Talion was still surprised they'd even had enough men, let alone the discipline and order necessary to organize a party to find him. He'd been stricken from the skies by an errant fireball and nearly crushed to death underneath Feanor the Elder, his previous fire-drake, who'd taken most of the hit. He wasn't sure what would have happened if they hadn't found him- he would have sworn, just for a second, that he had walked on some far shore, and there was light and he had been _free_ , for just a single, blissful moment, and then Eltariel and the orcs were there, and the silver-gilt chain that was the New Ring snapped taut, binding him to the land of the living once more. 

He banishes the memories from his mind, forcing himself to focus on the present.

"You're right." he acknowledges. "Gorgoroth in its current state is no place for a child. Nor," he adds " had I had any intentions for them to dwell here any longer than absolutely necessary in any case."

Tarz blinks, looking momentarily surprised, and then relieved. 

"Oh.. that's.. That's good to hear, Boss. You got somethin' figured out already, dinn'ya? Figured ya' would. The boys'll be pleased- er, 'cept for ole Muzu, think he's gone soft in the head, poor glob. That pup's got him wrapped around her fingers already, I can tell." Tarz shudders, "Scheming lil' things, pups."

Talion snorts at that, his thoughts drifting as he thinks of Cara, the little girl he and Torvin had found only a month before, hidden in a caragor den- and of Gawain, the strange but earnest man who'd arrived in Minas Morgul not long after, intent on setting up an orphanage within the city. Though odd, there was something about the man that made him feel implicitly trustworthy, and Cara had become quite taken with him, in only mere days after his arrival.

"I will have word sent to Minas Morgul- have Idril organize a caravan to bring them there. In the meantime, we'll see if we can't do something to ease the strain on your ration supplies- have you organized any hunting parties for this week yet? I spotted a graug den on my flight here, not but a day's ride from the fort."

"A Graug hunt, eh, Boss? Hmmm. 'S a good idea, would help raise the men's morale as well-" Tarz grunted, then turned to fix him with a stern look, pale yellow eyes narrowed. "Just as long as you don't go an try actin' as the bait again, ya' hear? Don't need ya making my job any harder- you're easier to protect when your insides _aren't_ on your outsides."


	8. FA 2, Nurnen, Mordor, (Two Years Prior to the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So pay attention to the key of my tone  
> I can lend a hand but I can't save your soul  
> And if you want a leader you should lead yourself home  
> I call my own shots, I won't sit in your throne"-   
> Teachings of a Ronin - Zack Hemsey
> 
> _A visit to Lithariel's people brings troubling news._

It has been nearly four and a half years since Sauron’s fall, and though there is still much work to be done before he can even _begin_ to think of the kind of rest he longs for, there is peace enough that Talion thinks it permissible that he stop and take a break, at the very least. So it is that he halts his travels, and stops in Nurnen for a year- and, though he had promised Idril and Baranor _and_ Serka that he _would_ **_rest_** \- he cannot help but involve himself in the needs of the local populace.

 It’s not _exactly_ breaking his promise, he argues futilely, more to himself than to Eltariel’s brief disapproval- after all he isn’t _fighting-_ merely advising, playing mediator and diplomat. Most of the time he acts as a go-between for the humans and orcs of Fort Shrakhburz, but he still takes time to visit with Lithariel’s people on the edge of the shore. 

Lithariel,now Queen of the Shore, is as strong and willful as ever, with a daughter of her own- and still fair despite the streaks of grey in her hair and aging of her bones. He tells her this once, when he visits, and she laughs- such a bright and clear sound- and swats at his knee as he sits beside her. 

Her daughter- such a young thing, looking terribly small as she clambers atop the back of Talion’s Dire Caragor in front of them- cannot quite decide if she should call him uncle or grandfather, and frequently tumbles into his arms with a gleeful, if somewhat awkward-sounding mix of both. His heart feels much too big for his tired body then, and Eltariel tactfully refrains from commenting on the watery smile he gives her over the girl’s shoulder.

The visits with Lithariel are normally peaceful things, a break from the paperwork and migraine-inducing arguments of Sharkhburz, but she will occasionally call for him and ask his opinion on matters of state and military maneuvers. 

 And so it is that he finds himself answering one such call, a message sent on Hell-hawk wing.

She steps forward to greet him, graceful and unafraid as he slips down from drakeback. The immense beast looms overhead, dissuading prying eyes and ears from listening in as they discuss the current source of her troubles.

“Dignitaries... from further East. They have journeyed far. But that is not what troubles me.” He blinks, his grey eyes lighting up red-gold with curiosity, and he nods for her to continue.

 “Talion,....they.... wish to speak with the Lord of Mordor.”  


He frowns, and then laughs wildly, shaking his head. “And they sought him _here_? Tell them they have journeyed in vain then- Sauron is _dead_ , as is the Witch-King - there _are_ no _Lords_ in Mordor.”

She and Eltariel exchange glances over his shoulder, and then Lithariel shakes her head, taking his hand in hers as she leads him deeper into the hidden city. 

“Talion, you misunderstand me- they wish to speak with _you._ ” 

His smile falters, and he feels something cold settle in the pit of his stomach. 

"..With _me_?" he hisses at last, shaking free of Lithariel's hand, stepping back deliberately.

" **No** \- I _refuse_ -" he started, eyes blazing a furious red-gold as he halts so suddenly that Eltariel nearly bumps into him. The words stick in his throat, a thousand different exclamations trapped by the weight of the immense rage he feels.

 _How **dare** they?_ For a moment, he is caught in the tidal wave of his own emotions. Against his will, the torches flare in their sconces, the dormant magic of Isildur's ring lashing out in sync with his mood.  


Eltariel braces a hand on his shoulder, the jewel of Galadriel's light clinking pointedly against his pauldron.  


" _Talion._ " she warned, patiently, tiredly. He shrugs her hand off, and slumps back against the wall, sliding down it so that he sits wedged into the corner of the hallway.  


"I refuse to speak with fools who conflate what we have done with the likes of Sauron!" he bites out at last, voice coming out far more distorted than he'd hoped as he struggled to restrain his temper. He lets out a wordless growl of frustration. _Damn it , he'd though he was getting better at this._

" **That** ", he adds, resorting to signing at her when it's clear his voice has failed him. "is **not** why I am doing this- this land, these people, they've suffered enough under tyrants masquerading as Lords- I do not intend to become the next one! That these... _diplomats_.. would see it as such-" he cuts off, one hand reaching up to run through his hair, and the other grips at his throat, fingers running across the scar there, and he looks up at her with tired, dull grey eyes.  


Lithariel, to her credit, shows not even the slightest flicker of distress or fear on her face at his earlier display, but merely nods sympathetically and moves to join him on the floor, grimacing as she sweeps a stray lock of grey-streaked hair out of her eyes. His anger is washed away by shame and guilt- despite her playful words and teasing remarks, Lithariel is no longer as young as she once was- and he halfway starts to rise, protesting. "Lithy- _oh_ , no- Lithy, that's not necessar- You don't need to- Why don't-"  


Lithariel snorts, and, waving off his fluttering hands, shoves him back down to sit against the wall with a strength that would be surprising given her age if one did not know her. 

"Oh, _what_? Worried I'll _break_ something?"

Lithariel's daughter gleefully takes the opportunity to clamber into his lap, and lean against his chest, small hands dancing over his shoulders as she played with the frayed hem of his hood, humming quietly.

Lithariel slid down to sit beside him with a snort. Quietly, she added, "Talion, _please_ , I may not be the near immortal, invincible Gravewalker, but i'm not _that_ old and decrepit, _yet_." 

She was stronger than most women her age, he kept forgetting that. Carefully he signed around the little girl's back at her, "Ah, my apologies, Lithariel, i do you little credit by that-"

She rolled her eyes, reaching over to gently thump his leg, drawing his attention to her hands. He looked over at her.

"Dad," she signed carefully and he felt his heart melt a little. "Stop apologizing. I wanted to sit with you, idiot. I was worried _because_ I knew it would upset _you_ , not _because_ they called you that. It was-," she hesitated, frowned, and started over. "They... made a mistake. They don't know what it was like, they weren't here. To them, it's just... a title. Sauron had very little influence in their lives, they wouldn't care to understand the difference between one ruler of Mordor and another. They just want to ensure that things stay for them ....as they've always been."

"Besides" and here she grinned at him, gesturing to her daughter, who had since curled up in his lap and promptly gone to sleep. "They'd have to be idiots to ever mistake you for Sauron. You _care_ far _too much_ to ever be qualified as _'evil'_ , Talion."


	9. FA 4, Nurnen, Mordor, (The Year of the Expedition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stone by stone  
> Cracked, crushed, fallen  
> Beauty burned, erased  
> But not forgotten
> 
> I’ll take your melodies  
> May your last breath  
> Fill the air with embers  
> I inhale"  
> Fires of War- Shadow of War Ending Theme
> 
> _Saying goodbye is never easy._

He returns to Lithariel’s people a scant two years later, Gondorian dignitaries in tow. Eltariel trails closer than she had before, weapons at the ready- she’d had to use them- on _**him**_ \- but a scant week before. Lithariel greets him with her usual grace, and he manages a thin, tired smile- but, he can tell she **knows** \- the air is filled with a sense of urgency, has been for weeks. She says nothing of it to him, and simply pats his hand. The tightness in his throat eases slightly, but they do not stay long, only enough to plant the barest seeds of peace- Lord Elessar is quite impressed with the Queen’s sharp wit and wisdom, and there is much talk of alliances and trade routes- though that is all put aside for some undefined, distant _later._

He snorts when he hears of this _._ His whole life has consisted of nothing but ‘ _later._ ’ He has, over the long years, put **plenty** of things off for later: leaving the Black Gate, paper-work, talking to Eltariel, **dying**. He is _used_ to later. Later is comfortable, _distant._

It’s when ‘later’ becomes ‘ **now** ’ that’s the trouble, and he finds no greater proof of his discomfort than when he finds it in Lithariel’s tired, grief-filled eyes. She stands facing him, standing at the threshold of her hidden city. Somewhere behind him the dignitaries linger, their eyes burning questioning holes into his back.  

He breaks the silence at last, reaching for the silk covered bundle strapped to his caragor’s side. 

“I..... have something for you, Lithariel.” She blinks, and takes the awkward bundle from him with confusion.

She pulls the silk away, and then gasps and immediately tries to shove it back into his hands. He shakes his head, refusing. 

"This-” and he presses the sword back into her hands firmly, and smiles gently at her. “-now _belongs_ to _you_.” 

“Wha- _Talion-_ You’re _leaving-”_ she protests, “This is _Urfael_! You can't give _me_ Urfael! This is  _ **your** sword_ \- I can’t _take this_!”

“You _can_.” he assures her, closing her hands about the sheath. “You _must_. I can think of no one better.”

“But- aren’t you- You can’t just leave without a _weapon_! -what about the other forts?”

“They’ll be fine.” he shrugs. Quietly, he adds. “They’re ready. So are you.”

“ _ **Oh.**_ You’re _leaving_.”  she says with sudden understanding, and he nods. Her face drops from frustration and confusion to resignation, as though she had been expecting this, but hoping otherwise. She probably had. 

“Yes. I am.” At his confirmation, grief flashes across her face, and she moves to throw her arms about him. He feels guilty for making her cry, but this is how it must be. All things come to an end.  

 _His_ is long overdue.

Bereft of context, the Gondorians behind him mill about in confusion.  

 _They do not understand, not yet_. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dirhael blink, and exchange a bewildered glance with his mother. ( _“What is he doing?”  “I have no idea.”)_

_Perhaps it is for the best._

He turns to leave, urging his caragor away from the vine-choked door.

 _“Gravewalker!”_ Lithariel calls, and he looks back. "If you must go-" and her voice breaks, and she falters, then starts again.

"If you _must_ go," Lithariel continues, raising Urfael to the sky above, its flames burning bright and clear now that it is purged of the Morgul-taint. “-Talion of Mordor, then go knowing this: You _will not_ be forgotten. _We will remember you._ _We will tell your story._ ” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one can more or less just be considered a deleted scene as it's been rendered extraneous and pretty much non-canon to the AU by recent plot developments- Talion's ultimate plan of "Forget This, I'm throwing the New Ring in the Volcano and calling it a Day, forever." is ultimately put on hold- indefinitely- by the arrival of a certain blue somebody who, uh, ..... _might_ have an issue or two with that plan. And Lithariel _is_ right, Talion kinda... _needs_ his sword if he's gonna go _anywhere_ in Mordor outside of the forts, nice symbolic gestures aside. 
> 
> Or in other words, i'm dodging plot-dependent chapters by posting reworked drabbles from Tumblr.  
> But I digress, I liked this scene too much to not do anything with it, so .....here it is?
> 
> I had a whole spiel about why Lithariel saying they would remember him and tell his story was so important to/for Talion, but I can't seem to find it, though it's on my tumblr somewhere, I'm sure.
> 
> Good news is we've got Awkward Family Bonding Time, ft. the usual Angst, coming up in the next couple of chapters, so there's that. Lemme know if ya'll catch any mistakes!


End file.
